


His Design

by SissorLuv



Series: Coping with Wrath of The Lamb or "Series of Pain" [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4978321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SissorLuv/pseuds/SissorLuv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short glimpse at Will's feelings a while after "Wrath of the Lamb"</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Design

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Hannigram fanfiction, but no need to be polite ;) Honest criticism is welcome. I'm no native speaker but still familiar with English. Nonetheless there will be errors. So, if you are sensitive to that when reading: sorry.  
> I also published this on my tumblr midtermpaper-terror, just in case anyone is wondering (what I doubt).  
> I hope you have fun reading.

Sometimes it was hard to bear the beauty revealed to him. He felt like something in him had been ripped apart, died, and started a metamorphosis in his body that threatened to pierce through his skin and wrap around his body in bloody drops and black antlers, prone for everybody to witness. Sometimes he caught himself missing his old self, when he lived his life in ignorance of who he was. His morals caged him but they were also safe. If you cannot move, you can’t do anything wrong, right? When Hannibal started to cut the straps of morals he felt himself moving, floating through time, losing track of everything. Sometimes it felt like symphony, sometimes cacophony. Ethics versus aesthetics. Where are morals when you start seeing beauty in death, blood and ugliness, when violence becomes pristine? What are they worth? Do they become meaningless or more meaningful, transferring their very own violation in Hannibal’s special art and thus creating a new form of morality that isn’t about humanity anymore but about divinity? What is it, that he creates? Sometimes Will feels like he has entered a new form of being, one step further towards this divinity he can see in Hannibal. Those are the good days and he is amazed and at the same time terrified that they start to overpower the bad days, full of doubt, of thoughts on his past, what, and more importantly, whom, he has left behind. And what this means for them. If he could have just left them all behind it would have been fine but he knew Hannibal, knew he wouldn’t let them off the hook. He probably knew Will was not ready for this step yet, but he would make sure he was one day. And Will was contemplating giving in, just to dissolve in the darkness, enter oblivion, dive into Lethe to rise again, free of constraints. Hannibal had pushed him far, Will had pushed them of a cliff, literally. Hannibal called it his baptism, but sometimes Will still felt like a heathen.

Giovanni Battista Pergolesi’s No.5, Quis est homo, plays in the background, flowing through the room, caressing him with melancholic and calming tunes, rising to a more vigorous arc and falling back again. Hannibal is eviscerating their newest kill, moving in tune like a conductor. Will is watching. The last one they took down had been his to deal with. He ended up as a bird-like installation on an open field. Will had put a lot of thought in it but wasn’t content yet. He was still searching for his signature. It was mesmerising to watch Hannibal in his routine: absent-minded, absorbed, elegant. The whole procedure a concept of art. Sometimes Will forgot it was people he prepared. When he watched him he forgot all his former notions of what was human. He lost all his definitions, his thoughts. He just...was. He never dared to touch Hannibal when he was preparing their kill, although he wanted to (terrifying, so terrifying) he just took it all in, watching, feeling. It felt like epiphany. It was what tied him to Hannibal.  
Guillaume Dufay, Ave maris stella enters his mind and all he wants is to immerse himself into Hannibal. Now he understands why Hannibal attempted to saw his head open, why he gutted him. Sometimes Will feels a need to be with him, in him, so strong he wishes to cut him open and crawl into his body, drink his blood, eat his heart and die. He never dares to touch him. Maybe they should have died that day.

It is Christmas. Hannibal is drenched in blood. His fine clothing sticks to his torso. Some drops adorn his face, slowly dripping down his cheekbones and his lips. His features look so sharp, brutish, Will wants to cut himself on his lips. He himself is breathing heavily. He runs a bloodstained hand trough his messy, blood-clotted hair. It is the first time they take down two at once, risky but necessary. They were prying on them, detectives it seems, maybe bounty-hunters. Strong men. Will spits some blood on the ground. Is it his or does it belong to them? The whole place smells like blood, it is oozing out of dozen wounds. It is like the dragon-night of his birth. Hannibal’s shirt stretches under his heavy breathing and Will can almost hear the excited rhythm of his beating heart. He admires his strength, the broad shoulders, heaving, the strong neck, vein pulsating. These men were probably innocent but Will doesn’t care. He wouldn’t survive separation. Slowly he steps over the corpses and touches Hannibal’s face, caresses every line, smearing the blood across his face. They seldom share intimacy because it feels too hard to bear for Will. He feels like he is about to combust. Normally he would shy away now, but somehow he doesn’t. His other hand trails the muscles on Hannibal’s Biceps, his forearm, entangles their fingers. Hannibal looks at him in awe – and pain. Will delights in the power he has over him, he knows how badly Hannibal wants to touch him. And he wants it too. But it is so much, so much. Just like that night when he threw them off the bluff. Hannibal must have the same thought. He leans his head on Wills.  
“I hope you won’t attempt to kill us again.”  
Will smiles.  
“No. I just...I didn’t know what to do with us. There was too much of you and me, too much of my old self.”  
“And now?”  
He feels an arm sliding around his waist, pulling him closer. Will nuzzles into Hannibal’s neck, taking in a deep breath. Cinnamon, chocolate, wine and blood. The new smell of Christmas. Will wonders how he tastes and licks the mixture of blood and sweat of his neck. He can feel Hannibal’s heart jump, his breath stopping. It tastes nice, although he would have preferred Hannibal’s blood. He trails some kisses up to his magnificent jawline and feels the beast tremble. He cups Hannibal’s face and pulls him down, feels his hand in his dark curls, pulling ever so slightly, and kisses him for the first time in his old and new life. It is a hungry kiss, biting lips, breaking skin, drinking each other empty until the world breaks apart and Will dissolves, realising this is his design. It is not about the kill, not about the installation, not the food, it is about connection, conjunction, becoming one...kissing your own soul drenched in blood and raw violence, stripped of all aesthetics and morals alike. It is passion, it is life and it has no restrictions. He wants to bathe in blood as long as Hannibal is at his side.


End file.
